


Spring Fancy

by EldritchMage



Series: The Angel and the Saint [4]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bard is a Welsh metal sculptor, M/M, Modern Hobbit AU, Springtime wishful thinking, Teenaged wanna-be, Thran is a Russian ballet dancer, hobbit au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-14 02:07:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7147943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EldritchMage/pseuds/EldritchMage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here's a very fluffy tale based on my Hobbit AU where Thran Oropherson is an elite ballet dancer, and Bard Bowman is a metal sculptor. It's for the Tolkien Writing Challenge (#springtimeinmiddleearth) that @little-red-83 (Red) and @theimaginesyouneveraskedfor (Roo) submitted.</p><p>This is a standalone tale about what happens in the spring when a young ballerina attends a ballet workshop hosted by her absolute all-time favorite idol, the White Russian, Thran Oropherson. No matter what she's read about him, she's sure she can impress him in all the right ways.</p><p>I hope you enjoy the fluff!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spring Fancy

**Author's Note:**

> Translation Notes:
> 
> lyubov moya= my love (Russian)  
> fy nghariad = my love (Welsh)

Petula leaned towards Juliana, clutching her friend’s arm despite her resolve to embody the calm, smiling hauteur of the perfect ballerina. Leave the squeals and whispers to the other girls as they waited for their hero to appear. Leave the excited little hops and nervous stretching to the others who hoped to attract _his_ discerning eye. Nothing so childish would attract the notice of one of the world’s best male dancers performing today – no, it would be the calm, confident carriage and polished appearance of the seasoned professional. That’s how she could carry herself, and that’s what would draw the eyes of the great Thran Oropherson to her, and her alone.

“He’s late. I’m going to die,” Juliana whispered, before Petula could say anything. Fingers clutched her arm as tightly as Petula’s clutched back.

“Don’t be silly. It’s still five minutes before nine,” Petula whispered back, smoothing her royal blue leotard again. She’d been about to make the same observation as Juliana had, but her friend’s comment gave her impetus to shore up her calm. “He’s a professional.”

“Yeah, and he’s _hot_ ,” Juliana managed to flutter her eyes, gulp, and sigh helplessly all at the same time.

Oh, yes, Thran Oropherson was hot. _Very_ hot. _Very, very_ hot. “He’s a brilliant dancer,” Petula sniffed.

Juliana favored Petula with an exasperated glare and poked her hard in the ribs, making Petula flinch. “Come off your huffy high mountain, Pet. You’re panting just as hard as everyone else is this morning. You can’t wait until the White Russian puts his dreamy hands around your waist and transports you across his ballroom floor.”

Oh, no, she couldn’t. She very much could not wait. Whatever she had to do to keep those long, elegant fingers around her waist, she’d do without hesitation – if she could keep from swooning at his touch. Or maybe she should swoon – surely he’d be concerned about her, wouldn’t he? What if he laid her gently down, his beautiful silver grey eyes ripe with worry for her as his braid of sublime, pristine white hair fell over his shoulder to brush gently against her arm, as soft as silk –

“Honestly, Jul,” Petula rolled her eyes as she batted Juliana’s hand away. “I can’t wait to work with a consummate professional. Not Eric, and not Jonathon,” she retorted. Those were the two tallest boys in the classes she and Juliana took at their home studio. “Someone who knows how to partner properly.”

“I’m sure he knows how to partner most divinely,” Juliana giggled, pressing her hands to her mouth. “No one who moves like that on a stage can be anything but divine in bed.”

Oh, yes, that was no lie. Thran Oropherson had more grace and charisma in his eyebrows than anyone else had in his or her entire body, dancer or not. She’d come to that conclusion after seeing him in so many online videos, but now, to see him in person – he was even more exquisite in person, entirely beyond belief.

Petula was still reeling from being in this class at all, much less seeing her favorite star so close up. It hadn’t been a sure thing that she’d be accepted, no matter that she was the best high school student at her studio – the best studio outside of the city. How many dancers from how many local schools had clamored to be in the first private partnering class that Thran Oropherson had graciously deigned to teach? Hundreds, if not thousands? And to attend such a class in the star’s own house! Well, not exactly _in_ his house – none of the thirty students had been in the dancer’s house proper, just in the adjoining ballroom where the classes were held, and the adjacent restrooms that had been added beside the ballroom. But she could wish – that’s what spring was for, wasn’t it, to turn one’s fancy to what might be, what could be?

She’d been the first in her school to badger Mlle. Kimball to fill out a teacher’s recommendation form for her, the first to send in her application, the first to pay for the privilege to attend Thran Oropherson’s class. She likely wasn’t the very first among all of the thousands of dreamers to be accepted, but that didn’t matter – what did was that she was accepted, period. Even that much was a dream. She’d spent hours deciding just what leotard to wear – the traditional black? Something more eye-catching? Professional, but eye-catching? Yes, black for yesterday, then royal blue for today – and more hours practicing how to tame her long, unruly brown hair into the perfect ballerina’s bun, smooth and elegant. Just the right small pearl drop earrings. Smudgy, smoky eyes, not too much for a daytime class, but hinting at the theatrical stage makeup that was de rigueur for performance. Nearly new pointe shoes, broken in and comfortable, yet without tatters or scuffs, suitable for a wooden floor rather than the more modern composite. Then to arrive yesterday, to actually stand in the same lovely room where Thran Oropherson stood at the barre to practice his greatest roles... to see the baby grand piano centered under the windows, to hear the pianist warm up...

Petula had nearly died right there.

When Thran Oropherson had appeared yesterday morning, pristine in cream-colored dancewear from head to toe, his glorious white hair woven into a beautiful fishtail braid, offering an elegant, Russian-accented good morning to accompany his bow – he bowed to his students! – it was almost more than Petula’s resolve could bear. She wanted to throw herself at his feet and declare undying love.

So did every other dancer in the ballroom, male or female. So of course she wouldn’t do such a common thing, no matter how badly she wanted to. She would remain above the crowd. Surely her idol would notice.

Yesterday’s class had been intense, if not as much of the partnering that she’d wanted to experience, but it didn’t matter. The ethereal dancer had begun with the barre that started every class in every studio and school, but to hear his rich voice call out the positions and combinations in that luscious accent had made the usual beginning a special confection. He’d paid sharp attention to every detail, every gesture, every step with precision, halting to make corrections and show refinements. Petula had not made any missteps that called Thran’s attention to her. When he'd stopped to correct one dancer’s imprecise position with a discussion and demonstration on the correct position, subtly repositioning the girl’s arms and legs with firm touches, she'd dared to take one position with less than her usual precision, hoping for a similar correction. Yes – he'd caught the mistake, coming to her side at once.

“You know better, _ma petite_ ,” he'd murmured, smiling, and passed on.

He’d spoken to her!

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” Petula hissed.

“I will if you will,” Juliana rolled her eyes. She straightened, and clutched Petula’s arm. “Ohmygod, he’s coming!”

If only he were. If only. Petula swallowed, straightened, arched her neck, and bent gracefully over her leg at the barre, watching from under her lashes as Thran Oropherson arrived through the ballroom door that led into the house. Her worship would take the guise of attention to the dance, not sappy sighs and longing glances at the impossibly tall dancer, all pale white skin and impeccably braided white hair and silver grey eyes. He was nothing but a god with heavenly long legs caressed in cream tights, divine hips and backside that made half the room moan and the other half bite their lips, an elegant torso clad in the palest grey knitted top with three quarter sleeves and wide neck that revealed sculpted collarbones, lean yet rounded and muscular shoulders, and swelling pectorals...

“Good morning, everyone,” the dancer purred, a smile on his perfect lips. He put a graceful hand to his heart and offered his students a slight bow. “You are all well this morning, I hope? Let us begin at the barre.”

A sigh went up as everyone took a place at the rows of barres, and waited for their idol to begin his instruction. Petula managed to catch her exhale before it was audible, but Juliana didn’t. It gave Petula something to feel smug about as they took the first position of the morning.

The barre proceeded quietly, but everyone was more aware than usual, because Thran was not the instructor to merely call out the figures and walk up and down to offer his critique. No, he stood at the barre at the front, facing them to mirror the moves, demonstrating as well as observing. He was quick enough to walk up and down the barres when he saw something he wanted to correct or modify, and he did so without raising his voice. At times he stopped the pianist so he could explain a point in more detail, or offer a demonstration. So everyone’s awareness was not solely on his or her own movements, which was usual for the first work of the day, but also on those of the refined dancer who taught them. Never had Petula worked so hard to keep her concentration on her moves – it was nearly impossible when confronted with the perfect body in front of her.

After the opening barre, the students built on the partnering work they’d begun yesterday. Oh, yes, this was what she’d hoped for – Thran himself was explaining to the boys the refinements he wanted to see in their lifts. No one in this class was a beginner; most of them were seventeen or eighteen and veterans of at least nine or ten years of ballet training, but fewer had as much experience at partnering. It was sublime to listen to Thran make a joke to the boys about how hard it was for Spartacus to carry Phrygia through so much of that ballet, as if one carried a sack of grain, and why weight training was a help. When it was Juliana’s turn to partner, and the boy fumbled the lift, Thran showed the correct position himself, drawing Juliana to flutter her hands in excitement, before he repositioned the boy’s hands for a more secure hold. Petula snorted, but quietly – and then found herself almost as giddy when Thran made the same corrections with the boy who partnered her. She wanted so badly to lean into that touch, to feel those strong pale fingers on her waist and thigh directly... it was hard to remain on pointe, holding a strong position.

“I see this refinement is not so easy to grasp, no?” that gorgeous voice projected slightly louder. “ _Mes filles_ , you will line up by the piano, and _mes garçons_ , you will line up at the side of the room, and I will show you what I mean.”

The boys lined up against one wall, and the girls lined up at the end. Thran would partner each girl down the line so that fifteen boys would see close up how the world’s best male dancer partnered fifteen different ballerinas.

Petula put herself at the end of the line. She wanted to savor her anticipation of those hands on her waist, her back grazing his torso, his hands holding hers through the pirouette...

When her turn came, she had the sequence cold, she knew just when to arch and to arabesque, when to extend, so that she didn’t have to think about it. She concentrated on each touch, each caress, each gesture. Oh god oh god oh god, she was dancing with Thran Oropherson! She, and she alone!

Never had one flight down a practice studio been so sublime.

“If I may, _ma petite_... Petula, you will allow me to demonstrate with you?”

Where was her voice? Not the shrieky, dithering one, but the calm, assured one? “Of course, Mr. Oropherson.”

What was he saying? Did it matter? She moved as his hands indicated, uncaring of whether she’d done something well that was a good example, or whether she’d misstepped badly enough to offer a cautionary lesson. Either way, Thran had her securely in the lift, telling her to arch her back just so, and extend her fingers just so... she trembled when he set her back on pointe and took his hands away.

“This is clear to you?” the dancer asked, looking at the other students.

“Um, Mr. Oropherson, I should turn my hip out more, then?” Petula asked quickly. “Would you show me again, please?”

“Yes, more to the outside with the left hip, right through to the toe, you see, _comme ça_.”

“This much, or more?” Petula pressed. God, she’d say anything to keep his hands on her.

“Very much more, yes. You must turn the hip up a great deal more, and then extend through the toes, very straight.”

Petula looked up into the most beautiful silver grey eyes she’d ever seen, and completely forgot about extending her toes anywhere. Those grey eyes smiled, and Petula was completely lost long before Thran moved away.

“Th-thank you,” she remembered to stammer. It was standard to thank a teacher for any instruction, even when one didn’t crave it.

“Perhaps a different kind of demonstration will be most instructive to all of you. Simone, _ma chère_ , would you please ask Mr. Bowman if it is convenient for him to step in for a moment?”

The young woman – someone associated with Thran’s own company, UltraViolet Ballet, if Petula remembered from yesterday’s introductions – got up from the piano bench with a wave and disappeared into the house. Thran let the students relax for the brief moments it took before Simone returned.

“He’ll be right with you, Thran,” she called, and resumed her place at the piano. In a few more seconds, a man appeared, slightly shorter than Thran, but almost as lean, and much more powerfully built. He was clad in rough workman’s jeans, steel-toed boots, and a rough blue tee. A blue bandanna was wound around his forehead, holding dark and unruly waves of hair out of his eyes. A carved silver earring was in each earlobe, giving an already handsome face a bit of bohemian allure.

“What do you need, Thran?” the man called from the doorway, not wanting to tramp across the floor in his heavy boots.

“Your strong arms and back, _lyubov moya_ , if you can spare a moment from your sculpture.”

The man grinned. “What, do you need someone to haul you around again?”

“If you would indulge me.”

The man bent to unlace his boots, removed them and his socks, and walked barefooted out beside the tall dancer. “Which one today?”

“Two steps, supported grand jeté, two steps, fish dive into arabesque, two steps, shoulder lift, and down.”

The man nodded. “When you’re ready.”

“From beside the piano and down the center line, please.”

“Righto.” The man followed Thran to the end of the ballroom, and waited for Thran to get into position. “Supported from the start?”

“Just so. _Mes danseurs_ , I will demonstrate the entire sequence, then break down the steps. _Mes garçons_ , you watch Bard, where he places the hands. _Mes filles_ , you watch me. You must keep a strong back at all times, or you will throw your partner off quite badly, and then he cannot help but to drop you. So your safety and elegance is your responsibility as well as his, you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” came the murmured response.

“So, the demonstration.” Thran took his stance, and the man – who was quite the dish himself – put his hands around Thran’s waist with assurance. The piano began, Thran counted four for his partner, and then they glided down the length of the ballroom. Thran’s partner had to be strong to lift the tall dancer easily across the floor in the split jump, then heft him down into the fish dive, then up again to balance on demi-pointe in arabesque, then take him up to perch on his shoulder, carry him once around in a circle, then lower him to a gentle landing. Spontaneous applause rang out, drawing a smile from Thran as he offered his partner a laughing bow. The man grinned, offered a hand wave, then patiently lifted the pale dancer through several demonstrations of each lift, holding steady as Thran explained the correct position of each partner for safety as well as elegance.

Petula hardly heard a word that was said. She was too overwhelmed at the sight of Thran playing the ballerina, delicate yet strong in the arms of his partner. Who was his partner, who carried Thran through so many repetitions without stain or impatience, who wasn’t a trained dancer, but touched Thran with so much familiarity, so much assurance? What had Thran called him? A sculptor? Oh, god, that article she’d read not long ago –

“And there you have it. Now enough demonstration on my part – it is time for all of you to demonstrate it. Thank you, Bard. Please, offer your appreciation to my husband, Bard Bowman, for his unfailing patience with us.”

Husband. _Husband_.

A collective sigh went around the room, from as many boys as girls. The White Russian, Thran Oropherson, the most desirable of elite danceurs in the world, was taken. And it was a hunky artist and sculptor who had taken him – quite willingly, if Thran’s kiss on Bard’s hand was any indication.

Spring seemed not quite as spritely during the rest of the day’s class.

 

* * *

 

“Thank you for your help to calm another class of dancers who seek more than instruction from a Russian dancer,” Thran said that night, as he and Bard settled into bed.

Bard’s chuckle was rich as Thran laid his head on Bard’s shoulder and rubbed Bard’s chest slowly. “You mean squash the fantasies of all the mooning teenagers?”

“I do not understand why there are so many of them. It is no secret that I am gay, which should quell the young ladies, and happily married, which should equally quell the young men.”

“It’s spring, _fy nghariad_. Hope springs eternal at any time of the year, but especially in the growing season.”

Thran hummed. “It must be so. I behave myself most carefully, but still, they moan and sigh.”

“They certainly do. Not that I blame them. You make me moan and sigh, too.”

“They moan and sigh just as much over you, even before they know who you are.”

“It’s no secret that I’m madly in love with you, either, so they’re out of luck with both of us. Still, I don’t mind hauling you around the ballroom a few times. I like dancing with the class act in the room. Puts me in the mood for more than dancing.”

“Does it, _lyubov moya_?” Thran stroked Bard’s chest, fingers straying down Bard’s sternum, then over his abs, then lower.

Bard exhaled, sighing deeply, then rolled over to engulf Thran in a deep kiss. “Of course it does, _fy nghariad_. It’s spring.”

Grinning, Thran set about doing more than stroking Bard’s chest, turning Bard’s sigh into an aroused moan.

“For both of us,” Thran observed, as his husband positioned himself.

Before he could take another breath, he was moaning, too.

 

# # #


End file.
